There's Luke
by MyAlias
Summary: No matter what's wrong, there's always Luke. That's why Lorelai proposes. What happens afterwards?
1. One

Title: **There's Luke**

A/N: From Lorelai's point of view. And, by the way, I obviously don't own any part of Gilmore Girls.

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I just had an epiphany. I know that word is completely overused, to the point that it seems to have no meaning, but I just had an epiphany. It's powerful, when your whole life falls into place in front of you.

I'm watching Luke stand in front of his counter, ranting, trying to save Rory from the worst mistake of her life. His ideas are impossible. He knows that. I know that. But it doesn't matter. They sound so good to me. I just love the idea that he has ideas, if that makes sense. I love him for trying. I love him for caring.

And I'm watching him, and suddenly I understand something about this whole rant. It's clear that he's trying to save Rory, but it's more than that. He's trying to save me.

I came in here tonight worn down, tired, on the cusp of defeat. My strong, beautiful, independent daughter is pulling the rug out from under herself, and even though I'm trying to stop her, her grandparents are helping her tug. When I walked in to this diner, I was wondering why I'm the only person who understood that.

But Luke understands it. Luke totally gets my rug metaphor and wants desperately to staple that rug to the ground under Rory's pretty little feet. He wants to do that for Rory, but he also wants to do that for me.

Even though he's still talking at a pace that rivals my own after a cup of coffee, I'm barely listening. Instead, I'm wondering what gave me the right to feel so sorry for myself tonight? Why did I feel so alone in my struggle? Sure, Sookie is busy with her baby, and my parents have abandoned me, and my daughter has… has changed. But I'm not alone.

There's Luke.

No, seriously, he's right there. Right here. Right in front of me. And that's what I mean when I say I had an epiphany. I realize now that I don't ever want to be in a situation where he's not right here, right in front of me, ever again. I want to know that he will always be right here.

What I am about to say is not impulsive. I've known subconsciously that it would end this way since it started. I've always known that I need him right here, right with me. But I've just now articulated it.

So here I go.

"Luke, will you marry me?"

I get a "What?" and silence. He stares just a second too long. Just long enough for my blood to turn to ice water and my heart to a stone. I'm staring into his eyes and they are darting from me to the ground to the door (is he going to leave?) and back to me.

This isn't supposed to happen.

"Lorelai," he says softly, with just the right tone to let me know it's an apology and not the beginning of some romantic oration that begins with a whispered "Lorelai" and ends with him scooping me into his arms and carrying me up the stairs to his bed.

I smile, sort of. I try to smile anyway. Maybe I can still play it off as a joke. Maybe it's not too late. Except that my quivering lower lip gives me away and he knows that I was serious. I can't believe I just did that. "Yeah," I say, trying to seem jovial.

"Lorelai," he repeats, with the same apologetic tone, but much louder this time. "This isn't right," he says emphatically, shaking his head, gesturing wildly with his hands. And now he's ranting again.

"Lorelai! Just today, when I mentioned 'the kids' you looked so upset – so shocked. I was going to… I mean, I was already planning on… But after 'the kids' happened, I already told Taylor that I didn't want the house… Oh my God! Taylor!"

And now he's running to the phone behind the counter and I am so confused. I rush over to him, motioning frantically for him to stop, to pay attention to me. "Luke!" He starts to dial. "Luke! What house? What are you talking about? Luke, it's late. You can't call Taylor. The man goes to bed at 8:15."

"He's awake. The bike race is tonight."

"Well, then he's busy. Luke, what are you doing?" I'm on the verge of tears, except I don't want to cry, I want to scream. What is he doing? Doesn't he realize I just proposed?

We're standing behind the counter. He's holding the phone in one hand, the other sits tensely on the counter. He's staring blankly at me. "You're right! He's probably right outside!" he exclaims suddenly, rushing past me towards the door. I'm quicker, though, and I throw myself in front of it.

"No! You're not just walking out of here! What just happened?" I ask emphatically.

He's standing in front of me, breathing quickly, almost panting. And then, suddenly, he's quiet. He puts his hands over his face and breathes deeply.

"Did you just propose to me?" he asks, as if he's not sure if it actually happened or if it was just a dream. I'm feeling the same way.

"Uh, yeah. I'm pretty sure that just happened." More silence. "So are you going to tell me what's going on?"

"Lorelai," he says, in that same apologetic tone. But this time he's walking towards me, putting his hands on my shoulders. He brushes a stray piece of hair behind my ear. "I love you so much. But you can't ask me to marry you. That's not what you want."

"Umm, Luke," I say, trying not to let my faltering voice betray my fear, my total desire to start sobbing. "I think I asked you to marry me because I wanted to marry you."

He looks serene now. He's smiling. This is so bizarre. "I know. That's not what I mean."

"Then what did you mean," I ask.

"I mean, you don't want to ask me to marry you. You're only going to get married once. I don't want that to be the story you tell your grandkids." He pauses. He can tell I'm utterly confused. "_Our_ grandkids."

"What?"

And now it's making sense because he's dropping to one knee in the middle of his diner, right there on the tile floor. He's holding my hand. I'm crying now because I really can't help it anymore.

"Lorelai Gilmore, will you marry me?"

And he's right. This is a story to tell the grandkids. Our grandkids.

And wow, I like the sound of that.

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Thanks! If you could review this, it would be amazing! 


	2. Two

_Title: There's Luke_

_Chapter: Two_

_A/N : Thanks so much for reading/reviewing the first chapter! This one is from Luke's point of view._

Usually when I'm asleep, I'm gone - as good as dead until my alarm goes off the next morning. This morning is different. This morning, my eyes open well before wake-up time. I roll over and find her there, and then I remember why.

We proposed to each other last night. But mine was the one that counted. And Lorelai Gilmore said "yes."

Whenever I wake up and find her in my bed, I always get a chill. Like I still can't believe that after eight years I finally get to have her here.

Even though it's the predictable thing to do, I'm watching her sleep. I'm always amazed by the way she sleeps - not like anyone else I've ever seen. She looks beautiful. But even when she's not trying to look beautiful – first thing in the morning (before coffee) or sprawled on the couch eating her fourth piece of pizza – she still looks beautiful. I sleep with my mouth open and I snore. She just lies there, perfectly, breathing quietly through her nose.

I should be rolling my eyes and jumping out of bed. I have never been the guy who sits around, watching some girl sleep. But eight years ago, I met this brunette with caffeine withdrawal and I knew that if she were ever the one in my bed, I'd watch her sleep.

Did I mention that I still can't believe she's here? For eight years I kept trying to make myself think of her only as a friend, but from day one that newspaper horoscope had a spot in my wallet and she had a spot in my mind. Even when I wasn't supposed to be thinking about her, she was there. Other women are beautiful or funny or caring, sure, but Lorelai is different. She has a spark. That's the only way I know how to say it.

I mean, if you'd asked me nine years ago if I would fall in love with a woman who can't survive for 30 minutes without a caffeine fix, blatantly uses her cell phone in my diner, makes fun of my baseball hats, and eats takeout Chinese food after it's been in the fridge for God knows how long, I would have probably said no. Hell, I probably wouldn't even want to be friends with her.

But Lorelai… she has this thing about her. This spark. That's all I can say.

She hasn't moved since I've been watching. I turn off my alarm clock so it won't wake her in a few minutes. It's 5:30 a.m. I carefully slide out of the bed and tiptoe out of the apartment. Let me make something clear. It's not often that I tiptoe. It's also not often that I get out of bed early, walk downstairs, and make an extra pot of coffee. But today, sure.

Once I get to the diner, I pour her a mug just the way she likes it. I hesitate to go upstairs because I'm sure the smell will wake her up, but I need to talk to her before work and there's no way to do that without coffee.

When I slip back into the apartment, she's still sound asleep. I put the steaming mug on the table next to her side of the bed. While I'm waiting for her to wake up, I take the small, black box out of the nightstand drawer. It's been there for few days now. When I bought it, I was pretty sure I'd get to use it. Then the whole 'the kids' mess happened and I wasn't so sure. I was thinking pretty seriously about the return policy. I'm glad I waited.

"Mmm," she murmurs as she wakes up. It sounds so good to hear her voice. Did I mention that I still can't believe she's here? "Is that coffee?" She yawns. How can she look beautiful when she's yawning? Her eyes are finally opened and she's looking at me, smiling. "Have I died and gone to heaven or did you really get up to make me coffee in the middle of the night?"

"It's not the middle of the night, it's 5:42, and yes, I made you coffee," I respond.

She sits up so she's eye level with me. "Is this part of the fiancée reward package? Because if so I'm going to have to get engaged more often." She takes a sip of her coffee.

I can't believe she just said fiancée. My fiancée. It's real. This is happening.

"I actually needed to talk to you about something," I say.

"Sure. What's up," she manages, between sips of coffee.

"I, uh, forgot something kind of important last night."

"Oh, did you?" she asks.

I don't know any other way to do this, so I just say it. "I have something to give you."

"Oh, do you?" she asks. She has to know what I'm going to say. And now she's messing with me. God, I love her.

I pull out the box and hold it so she can see. "Oh, Luke! Luke…" Maybe she didn't see it coming.

She puts her coffee down and covers her mouth with her hands. "Luke, how did you…?"

But she doesn't get to ask me how I already had a ring because I'm opening the box and putting a diamond ring on her finger. She keeps looking from the ring to me, with this look like she might start crying.

Once the ring is on, she laughs. "It's perfect," she says. "This is perfect. All of it." She pauses. "Thank you," she leans in and kisses me softly on the lips. I want to stay so badly, but I can't. She kisses me again. And again. I swing my feet over the side of the bed. I don't have time for this right now. I mean, I'd like to have time for this right now, but…

I'm seated on the edge of the bed, looking at Lorelai, who's looking back at me the way she can when she tries to make me her puppet. "Lorelai, the diner. My diner? You know, got to open the diner on time."

She laughs. She finds this all very funny. "Yes, Dinerman!" she says dramatically. "Anything for the diner, Dinerman."

I roll my eyes. I walk over to her side of the bed and plant a kiss on her forehead. "I'm going to go get ready for work. You rest and drink some coffee and come down for breakfast whenever you feel like it."

"Thank you, Dinerman! I'm so glad we have you here to look out for us, Dinerman," I hear her shouting as I walk into the bathroom and shut the door behind me.

A few moments later I stand in the shower. I'm still smiling because even when she's making fun of me for wanting to open the diner on time, she's beautiful. And she's mine now. After eight years. My fiancée.

But as much as I'd love to stand here and think about her for the next ten minutes, I should probably start doing normal shower things, like using soap. As I reach for the Ivory, I hear the bathroom door open again. There's a hand that I hope to God is Lorelai's opening the shower curtain.

I'm glad I got up to make that coffee this morning.

_So yeah, I know that was very fluffy, but I hope that's okay. Please review! Hopefully the next chapter will be up soon and will have a little more substance. Thanks for reading!_


	3. Three

_There's Luke_

_Chapter 3_

When I open my eyes an hour later, I see the empty coffee mug on the table next to me, and I remember what happened this morning. I take a morning breath -- one of those really deep ones that stretches your lungs and gets the blood pumping -- and smile as I exhale. My hair is still wet and the only thing I'm wearing is one of Luke's plaid shirts, but I can't remember the last time I felt this good about waking up.

I know I should be worrying about this. I should be worrying about the fact that I'm wearing a diamond on my left hand. There are so many issues we haven't talked about or even thought about. But I'm not worried.

I'm not. How great is that? I just know that it's going to be all right. Even better than all right. It's going to be really good.

As much as I'd like to spend the rest of the day curled up in Luke's bed, waiting for him to come upstairs and join me, I need to get back to my life. I amble over to my pile of clothes, and dig out my cell phone. No new messages. That's weird. I'm surprised Rory hasn't called.

Ah. Rory.

Squatting there on the ground next to the remnants of last night's outfit, I close my eyes and try to remember if it really happened. I know the Luke thing is real. Everything about Luke is real, I know that. But the Rory thing. The thing with my parents. Did that really happen?

I can see her in that pool house, unpacking. She glances at me, but doesn't even acknowledge the fact that I'm standing right outside. She just keeps unpacking.

I open my eyes. "No," I whisper to nobody. I shake my head. "No," I repeat, standing up. Rory is not taking this from me. Not this morning. I can deal with her later. But this morning, I get to enjoy last night.

I put on my clothes, pull back my hair, and descend into the diner. I used to get sideways glances from nosy Stars Hollow residents when I'd try to slip out of the diner unnoticed. Now, no one looks up from their newspaper or morning conversations. That's nice. I like that it's not a big deal. Still, I instinctively guard my ring. Don't get me wrong. I want everyone to know I'm engaged. I want every person in Stars Hollow to know.

I just need a couple people to know first.

He's standing behind the counter, making a new pot of coffee. I walk up to him and get just inches away before he notices.

"Good morning, again, Dinerman," I whisper, as I wrap my hands around him.

"So we're still on that?" he asks.

"You know me. I like to make sure the horse is good and dead before I stop kicking."

He presses the brew button, or whatever he has to press to get the machine to start working, and turns around. He puts a hand on each side of my waist. It's like no one else is here. He's smiling and I just feel really calm. Maybe I can make it through this whole perfect moment without thinking about the fact that I have to go home, and then I'll have to think about Rory.

"I'm assuming you want a cup for the road?" he says, gesturing towards the pot of coffee filling up behind him.

"Mmm," I respond. It's funny because he used to try so hard to get me to drink less coffee. Now he's encouraging me. He used to try to get Rory to drink less coffee, too. He blamed me for her addiction.

Wait. There's another thought I can't think right now. This is getting to be really hard.

He pours my coffee and I take it from him, still trying to hide my ring but admiring the way it shines in the fluorescent lights. "So, I'm just going to run home, you know, take care of some stuff. I'll come back in a few hours for lunch?"

"So I guess I'm making lunch?" he asks.

"Isn't that part of the deal? Because if it's not, I'm going to make it part of the deal. Why else would I choose the owner of a diner?" I say this as I'm walking away from him, making my way to the door. I flash him a grin as I leave, and I can feel him rolling his eyes as I walk away. Perfect.

Okay. I made it to the car and this has still been my morning. Even as I sit here in the car where, just a few days ago, she told me she would never do anything stupid again, I'm still not letting her mistake ruin my perfect morning.

As I drive the short distance home, I try to make a mental list of the things I need to do today. This is harder than I'd anticipated. I actually did the laundry yesterday; I needed a clean outfit for dinner with my parents. The dinner where we were supposed to fix the Rory problem. I don't need to clean up the house; it's not like there's been anyone else around making a mess.

But I need some kind of a task, because otherwise I'll end up going home and worrying about my daughter. It's not fair. She gets to make bad decisions and I have to worry about them. I don't want to do that. This is her mistake.

I could stop by the inn, but I know I don't need to. I could stop by Sookie's, but it's still so early and I'm sure she's exhausted. But this is the first decent idea I've had. Maybe I can go home, get changed and fix my hair, and bring Sookie a gift. There. Good plan.

When I pull up to the house, it already seems different. And that's weird because it's been me here, alone, for a while now. Why does it seem so changed now that she's living in that pool house?

I walk to the front door, but I stop before I go in. Something makes me turn around. I'm trying so hard not to think about Rory that she's all I can see. She's there, running in circles in the front yard. She's there, reading _Sense and Sensibility _on the bench on the porch. She's over there, making snow angels.

And she's not alone. She's with this woman who looks like I do, just younger and smiling.

But that woman isn't me. It can't be me. And that little girl isn't mine. At least she's not mine anymore. She belongs to someone else. Or she doesn't exist. Not like that anyway.

I'm not supposed to be thinking about Rory. When I realize this I immediately go inside. I put my bag down and take a deep breath. I have this overwhelming sensation that I'm trespassing. I don't live here. This isn't mine. With every step I take, the sensation becomes stronger and stronger.

Every memory in this house is one of this bond, this time when that little girl and that woman lived only for each other. But things aren't really like that anymore, are they?

Now I'm in her room and I'm not exactly sure how I got here, or why my subconscious decided this would be a good place for me to come. Her room seems so empty, and not like when she's at school and I know she'll be home in a few days. Different. Colder.

I sit on her bed and let my face fall into my hands. When I look up again, the first thing I see is her Yale wall. Wow. This is hard.

Well, I tried. I tried really hard not to let this ruin my morning. But hey, that's what you get when you're a mother, right? That's the part they don't tell you about when you're all happy and watching your little girl look for fairies in the front yard; one day she's going to do something really, truly stupid, and you'll just have to take it. And worry about it. Because you're a mother.

I fall sideways onto her pillow. I prepare myself to inhale the smell of her hair as my head hits her pillow, but it doesn't smell like her.

I don't know why I'm crying now. I can't tell if I'm more upset that the pillow doesn't smell like her than I would be if it did. At least if I cold smell her in this stupid pillow, it would be proof that she was here. But this whole house feels like it belongs to someone else, and now I feel like I'm lying in some random bed.

I'm trying to get some perspective here. I keep trying to tell myself that if this is her one, great mistake in life, then at least she's not a pregnant 16 year old and her life will be different than mine. Because that was my one goal here, to raise a kid who had everything that I never got to have. But as hard as I try, I can't get that perspective, because I'm just overcome with this feeling that I've failed her.

I told Luke last night that Rory was supposed to have more than me. I meant that in two ways. I wanted her to have more than I did, to have the college experience, to have a more direct route to being happy than I did. But I also meant it literally. I wanted her to have more than just me. I wanted it to be more than just Rory and Lorelai. I wanted that for her, and maybe a little bit for me. So when she told me she was dropping out, I did what I had to. I removed that option. I took myself out of the picture. And now there is no Rory and Lorelai. She has to have more than me because she doesn't have me.

My tears are falling sideways across my face onto the stupid non-Rory pillow. I throw it off the bed and rest on her mattress. It doesn't smell like her either.

I hate being here like this. I hate that an hour ago I was floating, and now I'm crumpled on my daughter's bed, feeling sorry for her and for me. I'm really, really tired of this. Really tired of this feeling. Maybe if I just shut my eyes, it will feel better.

I guess I fell asleep, because I'm waking up now, and Luke is sitting next to me, watching me. I'm not really surprised he's here, but it's a nice feeling. I wipe my eyes instinctively, but the tears are all dry. The red numbers on Rory's digital clock 3:17 p.m. I slept for a long time.

"How did you know I was here?" I ask him.

He shrugged. "I don't know. When you weren't at the diner for lunch, I just guessed." Silence. "Are you okay?"

I sit up. "Yeah." He raises his eyebrows. "No. I will be." I get out of the bed. "Do I smell burgers?"

"I just brought some stuff over from the diner."

This turns out to be the understatement of the year, because when I enter the kitchen, I find the table set with a tablecloth (where did he find that?) and placemats. There is a bread basket set in the middle of the table, next to a fresh pot of coffee and a vase of purple flowers. It doesn't feel like my kitchen, but then again, it didn't feel much like my kitchen earlier today.

I sit down at the table and he puts a burger and fries down in front of me. He takes the opposite seat. Looking around, I can remember a time when Rory would sit where he is sitting, and some woman who I used to be sat here, and they would laugh together and eat reheated pizza. And as hard as I try to focus on Luke - the guy who just figured out that I needed him, and came over here, and brought me this food - I can't. All around me are the images of that girl and that woman that swirl around this whole house. I'm realizing that as long as those memories are swirling around, I can never get to the future. I'm drowning in this house. I need to get out of here. Suddenly, I remember something he said last night.

"Luke. I need to ask you something."

"Yeah," he says, clearly worried but pretending not to be.

"Last night, when I asked you to marry me, before you asked me, you were saying something about Taylor. What was that?"

I can see him considering my angle. Why am I asking? He's looking back at me, squinting a little bit. "No reason."

"Oh, okay." I take a bite of my burger. "It's just, you seemed pretty determined to talk to him about a house or something."

"No. Not really."

"You were screaming, 'Taylor! I need to talk to Taylor!' You were running around in little circles with steam coming out of your ears."

He tilts his head to the side and takes a deep breath. "I, uh… I did this thing with the Twickham house."

"A thing?"

"I kind of bought it."

"You _bought _the Twickham house?" I put my burger down on the plate. Um, wow. "To live in?"

He scoots back a little in his chair. "No. I mean, maybe. I don't know."

I lean forward. "Luke. You bought a house?"

He takes a deep breath. "It's just, the opportunity came up and I wanted to keep my options open. So, yeah, I bought it. But it doesn't matter because I got out of it."

"What?" For some reason, this bothers me more than the fact that he bought it in the first place.

"It was dumb to buy it. You'd never want to leave." He's squirming so much I'm kind of surprised he hasn't fallen out of his chair yet. "I was assuming that you'd say yes to marrying me and that you'd want to move into a new house, which clearly you don't, and it was stupid."

I'm staring at him, completely aghast. I think my mouth is hanging open a little. Luke bought a house to move into with me. He did this before we were engaged, before I'd really even thought about it.

And then I remember when he mentioned 'the kids.' It all makes sense. Luke has these big plans. Luke wants to move into the Twickham house with me, and have a family with me, and live his dream with me. And he actually went out and bought a house.

Evidently Luke is worried by my continuing silence because he reaches across the table and puts his hand on mine. "Lorelai, I am so sorry. I just, it was an idea I had to live there. But I understand why you would want to stay here. This is where your life is. Here, in this house."

I look him in the eye and smile just a little. And I have this odd feeling, like all those swirling images of Rory and Lorelai Gilmore aren't swirling anymore. They are still. Everything is calm.

"No, Luke, it's not." I shake my head. "I mean, it was. It used to be where my life was. But my life used to be her." For some reason, as I say that, I gesture towards her empty, non-Rory-smelling room. "Now it's not."

He looks truly confused, but I don't blame him for it. When he came here and found me in my daughter's bed, sleeping on top of her mattress in a dried puddle of tears, he figured that leaving this place would make it worse. But in reality, I think leaving this house would make it better.

I put my other hand on top of his. "I think we should do it."

He laughs this perfect surprised laugh. He's smiling and I feel as happy as I did when I left the diner this morning. "Lorelai…Yeah?"

"Yeah."

He laughs again and stands up. He kisses me and I stand up and we're standing in the middle of this kitchen and he just seems so excited. And now I'm excited. For the first time since I walked in here, I feel really good.

This still doesn't feel like my kitchen, but it doesn't matter now. Or at least it matters less now. When I got here today, I thought the house had changed. But it's not the house. The house served its purpose, but Rory changed. And I changed. And now it's time to move on.

_Thanks for reading! Please review! TBC…_


	4. Four

_There's Luke_

_Chapter Four_

_(Luke's point of view)_

She actually wants to move into the Twickham house. Somehow, I managed not to screw this one up. She wants to move there with me.

I'm standing here in her kitchen, holding Lorelai in my arms, with this ridiculous grin on my face. And all I can think about is Taylor.

That is not right.

As soon as Lorelai told me she wanted the house, as soon as I was able to think clearly, I realized that I told Taylor that I didn't want the house. Now I need to fix that.

When I pull away from her, she looks different. She looks calm. She's smiling. "So. I guess we're moving?" she asks.

I nod. "We are. Assuming Kirk hasn't bought the house yet."

"Kirk?" she asks, scrunching her forehead in that way that she does sometimes.

"It's a long story that that involves a steam room full of almost naked old men and Taylor in a towel, so I'd rather not go into it."

"Oww," she says, shutting her eyes and throwing her hand over her face.

"What?" I ask.

"The image of that is like jabbing a knife into my eyes. It's _King Lear_ over here. You can't say things like that."

I laugh. "You don't like hearing about it? Try being there." She smiles. I love it when she smiles, but it feels especially good to see her smiling today. The way she looked when I got here… I hate seeing her like that. I'd do anything not to have to see her that hurt again.

"But the point is, I need to go see Taylor," I say. "You're welcome to come--"

"But I don't know that I'll ever be able to look at Taylor again." She sighs, shaking her head. "You know, I think I'll let you work this out with Taylor. I was thinking I should go see Sookie, bring her a present for the baby."

"The baby. I'd almost forgotten about that."

"Me too. That's the problem."

"So, I'll go talk to Taylor, and I'll find you afterward?" I ask, putting my hands on her arms.

"Good plan." She leans in and kisses me. "Good luck," she says softly.

"It'll be fine," I say. I think it will be fine. I'll make it be fine. I'm getting this house.

"Luke," she says again, putting her hand on the back of my neck and sending a chill down my spine.

"Yeah," I reply.

"I love you," she says. I would say it back, but I get the feeling she doesn't want me to. It was more like a "thank you," I think.

"I know," I say, because it's what she wants to hear. And because it's true. I do know.

And now I'm sitting in my truck, racing to see Taylor. I never thought I'd drive over the speed limit, or even at the speed limit, to get to Taylor, but here I am.

I park my truck in front of the diner. I don't go in, but I can tell that it's not crowded. That's not unusual for 4:00.

I pause outside the door to Taylor's store for a second and take a deep breath. If this were about anything else, I'd barge in, force my way through the Brownie troupe at the ice cream counter, and just tell Taylor what he is going to do for me. But this isn't anything else, this is the rest of my life, and maybe I should approach it differently. Calmly.

I take another breath and walk in. There are little girls in brown vests everywhere; I can hardly move. They're eating and jumping and playing those little clapping games where they sing annoying songs.

"Ahh, Luke! Hello!" Taylor shouts over the squeals and high-pitched conversation. "We're out of double chocolate chip fudge. Very sorry."

"I'm not here for ice cream," I say as I navigate my way to the counter. Must stay calm. Also, must not step on the daughters of any of my customers.

"No?" he asks, raising his eyebrows. "I can't entreat you to sample our Mocha Swirl? It really has quite a rich and—"

"Taylor," I interrupt. Must stay calm. "I need to talk to you about the house."

"The house? What house?"

Must stay calm. "The Twickham house, Taylor."

"Oh, yes, the Twickham house. Surely you haven't changed your mind?"

I'm standing at the counter, gripping the edge in frustration. "I want the house."

Taylor rolls his eyes dramatically. "Of course you do," he says, turning around and rearranging a stack of glass dishes.

Must stay calm. "What does that mean?"

"Well, did you talk to Lorelai?"

"What? Yes. What does that have to do with—"

"And, as it turns out, Lorelai does want to move?"

I take a deep breath and stare at him. He's made his point.

"Taylor," I sigh. I don't feel like playing this game. "Can I still get the house?" He must sense that I'm serious about this, because he doesn't take long to respond.

"I never even reversed the paperwork. I knew how this was going to go as soon as you told me you didn't want the house."

"So, it's mine?"

"It's yours. In fact…" he walks away and unlocks a cabinet under the cash register. "I had this delivered this morning just in case."

He's holding a key ring with two silver house keys hanging from it. I've never been so happy to have someone completely ignore my instructions. He hands me the key ring. The relief is instant.

I nod. "Thanks, Taylor."

"Are you sure you wouldn't like to sample one of our flavors? Strawberries-in-cream has been especially popular today."

"Bye, Taylor," I say, making my way back to the door through the sea of four feet tall children.

I make my way to the door, and am glad to finally be outside. I turn towards the diner and find Lorelai walking down the street with Sookie, Jackson, and two baby carriages. Before I have a chance to say hello, or to tell Loreali that the house is ours, Sookie almost knocks me over when she throws her arms around my shoulders.

"Luke! Luke!" she shrieks. "I am _so _happy for you! It's just… I mean… Can you believe it?"

After a few stunned seconds, I pull her arms off of my shoulders. Her eyes are puffy. She fans her face with her hands. "I'm just so happy for you." She literally squeaks this statement, and it would be funny if it weren't so real. I kind of understand how she feels, too.

Tears start falling from her eyes. She throws her arms around me again, this time around my chest.

"You're getting married! Married, Luke!" She's shouting in excitement, and I can see Lorelai tensing up, checking her surroundings for Babette or Patty. She's not ready for everyone to know; she hasn't told her daughter yet.

Jackson walks over and pries her away. "Sorry, Luke. She's still a little hormonal," he says in a half-whisper.

"Am not!" says Sookie.

"You should have seen her when Lorelai got to the house," Jackson adds. "Speaking of which, we need more Kleenex."

"Don't worry about it," I say. "Congratulations, by the way, Sookie," I say, leaning in to kiss her on the cheek. "And Jackson." I shake his hand.

"And you!" says Sookie. "And Lorelai!" She starts giggling. "And Martha, for being born! And Davey, for being Davey! It's just-- I'm just so--" She starts fanning her face again, about to cry. As Jackson tries to calm her down, I sneak over to Lorelai. I lean in towards her ear.

"I got it," I whisper as I take her hand. She squeezes my hand and smiles.

"Okay then," she responds, still holding my hand, smiling, just looking at me.

"So, Luke, Lorelai… an early dinner? We were going to pick up a burger at the diner, but we could all eat together," offers Jackson.

"Actually, if you don't mind, could I borrow Lorelai tonight?" I ask. "There's some important stuff we need to do with the Twickham house—"

"Ohmygosh the house!" Sookie exclaims. "Did you— Is it yours?"

"Yeah. It's mine," I say.

"Luke!" she squeals, and again throws her arms around me. "You're getting a house, you're getting a house." She's actually singing this.

"Maybe it's better that we eat alone tonight," Jackson says as he pulls Sookie away. "Too much excitement."

Lorelai wraps her arms around Sookie. "Good night, sweetie," she says. "I'll call you tomorrow?" Sookie nods. "And good night little baby Martha. You watch out for your mommy, okay?"

After a few more goodbyes, we finally split up, and I'm left standing on the street with Lorelai.

"So, Mr. Mysterious, what is this something we have to do tonight?" she asks.

"I need to show you the house."

"I've seen the house."

"No. Not the way I mean."

I can tell she's confused, but she doesn't say anything about it. She's still holding my hand, and we walk quietly to the Twickham house. I can feel her new ring pressing against my hand. This can't be real, but I think it is, and I'm scared and so incredibly relieved at the same time.

The house looks better now than it has in years. Apparently its owner's death was all it needed to get a fresh coat of paint, new shutters, and a doormat. But even though it's a little neater around the edges, it's still the same house I've wanted for so long.

I don't know when I got it into my head that I should live here. Or why. Maybe it had to do with the fact that Mr. Twickham lived here for so long and I knew he'd never move. By devoting myself to this house that would only be sold when he died, I didn't have to feel so guilty about living in a cramped apartment and not really trying to get my life moving. It wasn't my fault; I was just waiting for the house to hit the market. It had nothing to do with my own fear. Nothing. I was just waiting.

So when Twickham died, that was my chance. If I didn't take it, I'd be dooming myself to a lifetime above the diner.

We're walking to the front door, and I love the feeling of house keys in my pocket. I hand the key ring to Lorelai. "Would you like to do the honors?"

I'm surprised when she shakes her head. "No. You bought the house. You open the door." She doesn't say this in a mean way at all. In fact, I feel like she just gave me a present.

I put the shiny key in the lock and the door swings open. The hardwood floors are still shiny with polish, and the whole house smells of Pine-Sol.

"Wow," she says. "It looks so different when it's empty."

It's funny that she says that, because I had the complete opposite thought. I can see everything, down to the used coffee mug sitting in the kitchen sink. Can't she see the living room? Can't she see the couch with the beautiful brunette reading in front of the fire? Can't she see the toddler, asleep with her head resting on her mother's lap? Can't she see me, sitting in the armchair, pretending to read _Sports Illustrated_ but really staring over the magazine and watching my family?

I'm not sure exactly why I needed to show her the house tonight, but I did. I needed to show her the way I see it. It's my house right now, but I need to make it hers. I need to make sure she knows it's hers.

She's standing at the bottom of the staircase, running her hand over the white banister. "It's beautiful, Luke."

"Yeah, it is," I say, but I'm not sure I'm really focusing on the conversation. I'm too busy thinking about this house, how it's going to look soon. I can see Lorelai everywhere. But then again, even before I knew her I could see her here.

"So, give me the grand Luke tour." She puts her hand out in front of her, gesturing for me to take it, and I notice her ring again. She's grinning and her eyes are bright. God, those eyes. They make me feel like some dumb 15-year-old, in love for the first time. But I'm not 15.

I could start downstairs with the kitchen. It has this great big stove with a brick overhang. Or I could take her through the living room, with the original mantle and fireplace. But that's not really why I'm here tonight.

"Okay," I say. "Let's, uh, start upstairs."

"Ooh-la-la. You get straight to the point, don't you?" She let's me guide her up the stairs, down the hall to the left, through the white door on the left side of the hall.

And here it is. Our room. To her, it's completely empty, but I can see everything in it already. I decide to tell her, because it's a little weird that I'm standing here staring blankly at the floor.

"So…" I say, unsure of how to begin. "I've got this all planned out."

"What planned out?" she asks.

"The way the house looks. I just – I can see how everything will look."

"And? How does this room look?"

"Well, this is our room."

"I got that much," she says, smiling.

"Okay… This is where our bed goes," I say, gesturing broadly towards an area of the wall across from the two windows looking out at the street.

"Good choice. What kind of bed? Can it be a four-poster? I really want a four post bed."

"Sure. Whatever you want." I mean that, too. Because when I see the way the house is going to look, I don't imagine it the way I would want it to look if I lived here by myself. I see the Lorelai things in the house, too: the high heels thrown on the ground, waiting to be stepped on, the ridiculous monkey lamp in the living room, the Cheetos in the kitchen, the four-post bed.

She just stands there completely still, except for her eyes, which are darting around the room. I think that she's beginning to see the Lorelai things, too. She can see it now; it's not my house, it's our house. And even though she hasn't said anything, I can tell she's happy, because her eyes are bright.

_The end, for now. The next chapter should be the rest of the tour from Lorelai's point of view. Thanks for reading. Please, please review! _


	5. Five

_Title: There's Luke_

_Author: Myalias_

_Chapter: Five (Lorelai's point of view)_

As I stand in the doorway of the adorable en suite bathroom, Luke is explaining the logistical feasibility of installing a new bathtub without having to retile the entire room. Apparently, this is possible, but might be unnecessary if he can rework the piping himself with some new kind of plastic connectors. Or something like that.

I have no idea what he's talking about.

He's acting this out, showing me the exact line on the ground where the tile might crack if that were to happen. If the tile cracks, we have a whole new problem because this tile was probably installed in the late 1980s, and it's most likely not being produced any more, and there is no way to replace individual tiles.

As entertaining as Luke's Bob Villa impression is in its own special way, I've learned more about tile today than I ever, ever wanted to know. I want to leave this adorable, albeit faultily tiled bathroom, and I want to see the rest of this house. Our house.

He pauses. Apparently he has exhausted his tile knowledge for today.

"Did I point out this mirror?" he asks suddenly, walking closer to the standard, over-the-sink, cabinet-covering mirror. "I'm pretty sure it will be big enough. I mean, I don't really need a big mirror, but for you. I mean, not that you need a big mirror but if you wanted one, we can probably put in a - "

"No. No, Bob. We can keep the mirror," I interrupt, smiling.

"Yeah?" he says, looking concerned. "You're right. The mirror's fine." He takes a deep breath. "Did you just call me Bob?"

"No."

"Okay. Because I could have sworn… like Bob Villa? Really?" he asks.

"Luke," I say, lowering my voice, pouting my lips. I wrap my hands around his lower back. "As much as we all love the bathroom…Are there other rooms in this house? I would love to see them."

He rolls his eyes, but in the good Luke way. "There are a couple, you know… other rooms."

"Ooh! Good! Let's go see," I say, pulling his hand and forcing him out of the bathroom. If I weren't dragging him, I'm pretty sure he would have stopped in the bedroom and started inspecting the electrical outlets or something. It's like when I used to have to carry Rory out of the bookstore because if I didn't, I'd turn around and find that she had returned to the fluffy stuffed dog in the children's section and was dutifully reading _Goodnight Moon _for the 15th time. But with Rory, back then at least, it was clear why she did what she did. She wanted to stay because she wanted to read. With Luke, his reasons are not as self-evident.

We finally make it through our bedroom and into the hallway. Directly across from the bedroom door is another white door. I put my hand on the doorknob.

"Lorelai, wait!" he says, putting his hand on mine, stopping me mid-twist.

"Oh. Okay," I say, letting my tone reveal just a hint of frustration. This is weird. I don't know why things are weird all of a sudden. Things don't feel calm and comfortable like they did when Luke was explaining the possible grouting options for our bathroom. Why is he making them weird?

"Let's not go in there," he says.

"Why not?" Did I mention that I hate that it's weird. Us not being weird is the only thing keeping me from falling apart again today.

He's just staring, not letting me turn the doorknob. He takes a deep breath. "Just, I'm not sure that today is the day to have this talk."

I know exactly what talk he means - the one about babies and diapers and college savings accounts - but I won't let myself realize that Luke is serious. And he's nervous. Luke is really, really nervous. I'm surprised, because for some reason it's never really occurred to me that this was going to be an issue. That it is feasible that Luke and I are on different pages here. I never thought about the fact that he's never heard me say, "Luke, if you want kids, I want kids." Because I do, I think. I just don't want to discuss it.

He's right, too. Today isn't the day to have this talk. Not after everything that's happened with Rory. He's trying to throw me a lifesaver; if we don't go in the room, we don't have to talk about kids, and I don't have to think about Rory for a little while longer. He's nervous for himself, but he's putting this conversation off for me. He's not the one making this weird, I am. But instead of recognizing that, of taking his offer and talking later, I decide to be obstinate. I'm good at that.

"Luke. It's a room. Four walls, a ceiling, some windows. Let's go in," I say, pointing towards the door. Wow, I'm being incredibly condescending right now. And why? I'm trying to ease the tension, but I'm not making this better, I'm making it worse. I can take Luke's offer and put this conversation off, or I can be mature and discuss it with him, or I can be rude and childish. I go for door number three.

"Yeah. A room," he says, struggling to find the words. "Okay, look. When I, uh, imagined us living in this house… I never saw us living alone here."

"Not alone? Other people?" I ask flirtatiously, still attempting to wriggle my way out of this conversation. "Why Luke, what kind of a girl do you think I am?" I say in my best southern-belle voice.

He doesn't laugh. He doesn't even smile or roll his eyes. He's still silent, still tense, still holding the doorknob.

"Okay," I stammer, through a sigh. "Sarcastic remarks regarding a ménage-a-trios are not going to work," I say, stepping away from the door. He's still scrutinizing my face, trying to read my eyes. I'm trying to read his, but it's hard because his face is all squished up in anxiety. Did I cause that? What am I doing?

And just like that I realize that I'm being completely horrible and selfish right now. I scan my memory, trying to recall the various conversations Luke and I have had about having kids. Granted, we had those conversations before we were together, but I've always gotten the same impression. Luke wants a family. He deserves a family.

I can see it now, the fear piercing his eyes. He is afraid that I'm done with raising kids. Rory was my one shot. Now I'm tired of it. But I don't think he's right.

He's petrified and I'm letting him stand there and stare at me.

I physically shudder at this realization. "Oh God, Luke. I'm so sorry," I say, putting my hands over my face, and I mean it. I am sorry. Luke's whole future, and the future of generations of mini-Lukes, depends on this conversation and I just made a sarcastic comment about a threesome.

But this moment just keeps getting worse. It was really stupid to apologize just then, because he thought I was apologizing for not wanting to have kids, not for being a 12-year-old during this conversation. Without moving a muscle in his face, his entire expression changes. His eyes fall towards the ground and just become so still and so sad. I hate that I'm hurting Luke this much, and for no reason.

"Oh, no! That's not what I meant!" I say. He looks up again. "I meant that I'm sorry I brushed you off before." I throw my arms around his shoulders and rest my chin on his shoulder. "You were trying to have a serious conversation with me."

"Yeah, a little bit," he says, his simple words exuding relief. This close to him, I can hear his heart pounding in his chest. As terrible as it feels to know that I scared him this much, I'm impressed that he is so attached to this dream of our family living in this house. I've never seen him look that hurt; that's how much he wants this.

I pull away, shaking my head. "God, I'm a terrible person. I just…"

But before I can stumble through any more of my sentence, he opens the door. I smile when I see the room, because I understand what Luke was talking about in our bedroom; I can see its future. We stand in the doorway for a moment. This room feels like a baby's room. It has three big windows along the wall, so it's bright and airy. Underneath the windows runs a beautiful window seat. I can smell the talcum powder and hear the mobile playing "Hush Little Baby."

Luke follows me to the window seat. Right now it's plain white, but I can already see the comfortable cushion that will soon cover it - pink or blue. I sit down, facing the spacious room, and he joins me.

"So we should have talked about this," I begin.

"A while ago?" he says.

"Yeah," I say. It's quiet again, but I won't let the weirdness creep in here. I'm just talking now, telling him things that I should have told him a long time ago. I'm being honest, and it hurts.

"So, I've just turned 18 years old, and there's this Bangles album I don't have yet, and I want to buy it so badly. This is the Bangles we're talking about, so this is really important to me. The problem is, I've left my parents, and I'm living at the Independence Inn, and I'm not exactly bathing in champagne and caviar. But, God, I wanted that tape so badly. I started saving for it, you know, putting change in an empty peanut butter jar, just waiting."

I glance at Luke. He's listening intently, but he doesn't look scared. Good.

"So finally, after weeks and weeks of waiting, I have the money I need. It was really cold that night, too cold for snow, so it was just bitter and icy outside. Rory had this little stuffy nose; she'd been crying all day and I was tired of it. I wanted that Bangles tape. And I'd worked so hard for it, you know? I'd pulled the bed sheets extra tight, put extra chocolates on the pillow, organized shoes on the floor of the closet. Even though I had this little, stuffy baby, I also had an empty Jif jar with enough crumpled one-dollar bills for that Bangles album. I deserved that tape." I say this as if I'm trying to justify it, and that's kind of funny. At 18, this seemed like a rationale decision.

I look towards him again. He's leaning forward with this rapt expression, which is interesting considering that I'm not even sure I know where this story is going. I guess Luke hasn't heard much about this period in my life. I guess no one has really heard much about this time in my life.

"I knew it was cold, so I put her in three layers of clothes, wrapped her up really tight in this blanket, and sort of smushed her in her baby carrier. I bought the tape, and we were really only out for 30 minutes, and she just fussed a little bit but it wasn't a big deal. I figured I'd get home and she'd calm down to the Bangles. But as I got closer and closer to the house, she started crying louder and louder – eardrum piercing, mirror shaking screams. The roads were slick and I was just trying to get home, trying to make it stop."

"When I finally got her inside, I put her on the bed and started to unwrap her. And every blanket I unwrapped was like opening another of Hell's gates; it got hotter and hotter. The little baby blankets were actually damp, her clothes were wet, her perfect little baby cheeks were bright red, and she was screaming." I stop talking for a second, remembering the terror I felt when I touched her 103-degree baby skin. Nothing burns like that.

"She was sick?" he asks, and I can hear the concern in his voice. I don't know why that means so much to me, 18 years after the fact, but it does.

"Apparently. I didn't know about stuffy noses and screaming babies and fevers breaking. She was just screaming, and all I could think was, 'I am the worst mother who has ever existed. Why would anyone let me have a child?'" He puts his hand on my shoulder.

"I mean, she was just this little baby, and I had put her through all of that for what? For a cassette?" I shake my head. I hate that memory, but I just feel like Luke needs to hear it.

"Rory cried all night, and even though I tried to listen to my new tape I had to stop it because there was so much crying and I couldn't hear it. You know what I did? While my little girl was sick, when she needed me, all I could do was hold her and sit on the floor of this tiny house, leaning against my bed, and just cry with her."

"Lorelai," he says, putting his hand on my shoulder. "You were 18."

"I know I was."

"Rory was fine," he says.

"I know she was." I say, turning towards him. "But that's not why I told you this story." Now I have to figure out why I did tell him this story, because I know there was a good reason.

"At moments like that, when I was just confused and scared, I would think, 'If I can just get through this, it will all be okay. I only have to do this once, and then it's over.' I never wanted another kid." I sigh. "But at other times, Rory was just so perfect, so completely, life-alteringly perfect, that I'd think, 'How could I want another kid? No one could be this perfect ever again.'"

He smiles at the last part, because that's the Rory he knows. Or at least, the one he knew until this year when she decided to start making mistakes and giving me worry lines.

"You did a great job with her, Lorelai," he says. "Don't let anything change that, or make you think something else." Somehow he knew I needed to hear that.

I smile. I want so badly to contradict him, to remind him how I failed her, how if I had any skills as a mother she wouldn't be dropping out of Yale. But I try to remember that feeling I had, sitting on the floor of that cottage, holding her. I was sure I'd failed her then, and the next day she was back to laughing and bouncing around her playpen. If all those experiences have taught me anything about being a parent, it's that you always get another chance. Kids are resilient; they bounce back. So do parents.

And _there _is why I told him the story. He needed to know why I am afraid to have kids with him, but he also needed to know why I'm not.

"It's the scariest thing you'll ever do in your life, and the most amazing. Those are the extremes, the moments when you want to cry out of sheer terror at what you've done, and those moments when you want to cry because of how amazing it all is. Having a kid is this whole experience, and I've already had it once."

"You have," he responds. It's not a question, just a statement tinged with anxiety.

"But I had it alone," I say, taking his hand. "When it was scary, it was so, so scary because I was alone. And when it was great, it was also a little sad because it was just me and Rory. No one else got to share that with me. I was everything I could be for her. But if I'm going to consider doing this whole crazy thing again," I say this as I motion towards the beautiful, empty nursery, "I want more."

"You deserve more." He stands up, and walks to the far window. Silence, again.

"You see this backyard?" he finally asks. I walk to the window, too, and stare at the expansive grass behind the house.

"Umm, yeah, I think I can make it out," I say.

"I was thinking I could build a pretty great swing-set for it. You know, a slide, monkey bars, the whole deal." He's pointing through the glass, towards a corner of the fenced-in yard.

I smile. "I think that would be nice, Luke."

"And in that corner of the yard," he says, gesturing towards the other corner. "Maybe one of those little playhouses. You know the ones with the little porches and curtains?"

"I do," I say, grinning. Rory never had one of those little playhouses. This whole moment is so genuine, and I'm reminded of Luke's pounding heart as we stood outside this room.

He continues. "This isn't just something I came up with out of the blue. This kids thing. I just want you to know that I've thought about it."

"I know you have."

"No, I mean, a lot." Now it's Luke's turn to talk, and I am relieved that he wants to. I'm also excited, because usually when Luke starts talking he turns into Ranting Luke, and I love Ranting Luke.

"I never used to want a family, you know. It was hard for us, growing up without my mom, and I didn't see the point. I am good at taking care of me; I've had a lot of practice. I know how I like my apartment to look, where the socks go and how my shirts are supposed to be hung up. I know how long I like to cook my scrambled eggs, and I don't have to worry about how anyone else wants theirs-"

"Yeah," I interrupt, "Except for a diner full of people every morning." He just keeps talking. Oh good, it _is _Ranting Luke!

"I know when I like to go to sleep, and when I like to wake up. If I want to leave, I leave, and if I want to walk around in my underwear, I do. For a long time, kids just seemed unnecessary, messy, and sticky. Why would I want to inflict that on myself?"

"Yeah, why mix things up? Why risk the scrambled eggs?" I ask.

My question was rhetorical and clearly sarcastic, but he doesn't answer and he doesn't keep talking. We're still standing at the window, gazing at the backyard. But it feels right, and I'm trying to imagine this swing-set.

"When did it change, Luke?" I ask softly, essentially rephrasing my scrambled eggs comment into something meaningful.

"You and Rory," he says, still looking at the empty corner of the backyard.

"Me and Rory?" I ask.

"I know it's been… strained… lately," he says. "But you have this connection. After my dad died, I kind of forgot what that was like, to have that kind of relationship with someone. But watching you two, sitting in my diner, you had this world together. It just reminded me. I wanted to be part of something like that."

He sighs. "But I knew it had to be with the right person. I didn't want it to be my fault that another kid had a dysfunctional relationship with their parents."

"Believe me, I understand. You're looking at the poster child for dysfunctional relationships with parents," I say.

"I don't know. I was thinking more about Jess. Everything with Jess was so hard; I had no idea what I was doing. But looking back, I think maybe I made a little bit of a difference in his life. Maybe I saved him from something worse."

I haven't thought about Jess in a while, and it's strange to hear Luke talking about him in this way. "You did as much as anyone could with Jess. And you did make a difference."

He turns to me. "I guess that somehow, between watching you and Rory in my diner, remembering my dad, and struggling with Jess, I realized that if I was going to have a kid, it would only be worth it if it was with someone like you. And I knew that you thought I could do it. You told me you thought I'd be good at it. No one had told me that before."

I smile, remembering the conversation.

He steps back from me, and takes a deep breath. He exhales, and looks at my face for a moment before speaking. "Lorelai, I want to have a family with you. I don't know that I've always made that clear, but there it is, and I just hope that…"

He doesn't get to finish his sentence because I kiss him, and slowly wrap my arms around him.

"This room will make a beautiful nursery," I say.

He nods, smiling slightly. Then he starts to shake his head. "A nursery? Really? I was thinking a den - a big screen, a beer fridge, a dartboard."

"I agreed to kids. I did not agree to _The Man Show_." He puts his hand on my back and we move towards the door.

"I love you, Lorelai," he says as we leave the nursery. I would respond, but I feel like he doesn't want me to.

At the end of the hall is another room, also a bedroom, smaller but still airy. Luke shows me the room, but he doesn't describe it to me. I think we've both had enough predicting for today.

We look at the bathroom upstairs, and then descend into the bright living room. It's really beautiful in here, and I notice the empty mantle, wondering how it will look in a few years. He shows me around the first floor, not forgetting to point out that the tile on the kitchen counters was replaced a few years ago and is still in good condition. I really love this house, and I'm excited that I get to live here.

"So there's just one room left," he announces, as we stand in the kitchen.

"There is?" I ask, confused.

He opens what I had assumed was a closet. "Basement," he says.

The thought hadn't occurred to me because my basement isn't a room, it's a place where the pipes live. But after Luke finds the light switch and we walk downstairs, I see that this basement is neither dark nor dingy. In fact, it's carpeted and the walls are plastered and it's nice. Because of the way the ground slopes outside, the front wall even has a row of narrow windows at the top. There are built-in bookshelves along the opposite wall, and I'm pretty sure that's a door to a bathroom in the corner. Across from the bathroom is another staircase.

"That goes up to the garage," Luke tell me, noticing my gaze.

"This is amazing, Luke. It's like a whole apartment down here. Well, minus a kitchen, but what can you do with a kitchen that you can't do with a coffee maker and a microwave?"

"I didn't know this was here until we built the museum. We used it for storage, but it's a nice space."

"So what are we going to put down here?" I ask, genuinely curious to find out what Luke has put in this room of his dream house.

"Well, before all this… I mean, I had been planning on keeping this for Rory. You know, making it her place. It has the bathroom and it's own way out, so it would be a good arrangement. But I understand if…"

He trails off when looks at me and sees that there are tears welling in my eyes.

"I'm sorry," he says. "I just wanted to make sure you knew she was part of the, I don't know, image of this house that I've had. You were there, and Rory was always there, too." He wraps his arms around me and holds me for a few seconds, and I dry my eyes on his chest. "She'll come back, Lorelai."

"She has to," I say. "She has a room."

_Thanks for reading. Sorry that was so long, but I hope you enjoyed. TBC…_

_Please, please, please review! _


	6. Six

_Title: There's Luke_

_Chapter: Six (Luke's Point of View)_

Even though I know that this is a dream because I can hear my own voice telling me that it is, I beg my conscious self to shut up. It's not often I have a dream like this, one that is clear and almost logical and obviously a dream, even while I'm having it. Something about this dream is unsettling, but out of curiosity I force my subconscious to keep going.

I'm in the diner, and it's dark outside. The diner is closed and it feels empty, but when I look up from the counter I'm wiping with a rag, I notice my sister and my mom sitting at a table in the corner. It's jarring to see my mother here; I haven't dreamt about her in years. When I was a younger, when she died, I'd see her every night. Then I stopped.

They're leaning towards each other, almost whispering, glancing at me every once and a while and then turning back towards one another. I want to ask them what they're doing here, but I can't bring myself to say anything. I just stare.

They're not laughing or smiling. Liz is stirring her coffee too much, shaking her head. I can't take my eyes off my mother, because I've never seen her like this: She's old. In my memories, she'll never be older than 40. In my dreams, apparently, she can be old.

So this is how it would be if she hadn't died when I was a kid and she'd lived long enough for those lines around her eyes to deepen and her hair to start turning gray?

My mother puts her hand over Liz's, the one that's not incessantly stirring her coffee. This strikes me as sad, because when I see it, I realize how much Liz needed my mother. Liz would have been so different if she'd just had my mother for a little bit longer.

My mother glances at me, and I can see the sadness in her eyes. They're not shining like they used to when I was a kid, when she'd sit in the backyard and watch us playing catch with Dad. Why are her eyes so sad? Don't they know how good the world is today?

It's my dream, I tell myself, as I walk to them, wordlessly pulling out a third chair from under their table and sitting down. I put my hands flat on the table.

"What?" I say.

They say nothing. Liz keeps stirring her coffee.

This is all very strange. I don't dream about my family. If I dream at all, it's about running out of bagels, forgetting to get dressed before opening the diner, Taylor deciding to move to Florida. What is it about tonight that's different? Is it because the whole day, while I was showing Lorelai around my dream house and describing our future, I was fighting to keep out images of the past? Is it because when I stood upstairs, showing her where I was going to build a swing set for our future children, I was visualizing the swing set my dad had built for me?

I hear someone knocking softly on the door. When I go to unlock it, I see that it's Lorelai. I'm incredibly relieved to find her here, in my dream, and I gratefully open the door for her. She's dressed in all black, and she just looks at me with those same sad eyes my mother had before. She just hugs me, letting her face linger a moment against my neck, and walks over to the table with my mother and Liz. Silently, she sits down.

I join them again, leaning back in my chair. This is a frustrating dream. Can't I make them talk? Aren't I in charge here?

"Damn it!" I mutter. "What's wrong?" I demand. I'm not even sure if I'm dreaming at this point; maybe I'm trying too hard and this has become more of a daydream than an actual dream. Am I forcing this on myself?

They all look at me for a moment – my mother, with her sad eyes; Lorelai, with that black outfit; and Liz, still stirring. Then, almost instantly, they look away again -- back at the table, the darkness outside the window, Liz's coffee cup. Anywhere but at me. That's when I figure it out. This is how everyone acted when my dad died. That look.

Of course, when my dad died my mother was dead, my sister had already left Stars Hollow, and I didn't know Lorelai. But still. That look. My dad died 15 years ago, but I'll never forget the way people looked at me when it happened. They'd glance at me, their eyes full of pity, and then look away, as if his death were contagious.

The door to the diner opens. I look towards the door, and there he is. My dad. Standing in my diner, just looking around, sort of smiling. Unlike my mother, he doesn't look old. He looks the way he did before he was sick. But as soon as I realize that my dad is here -- when I'm about to stand up and walk closer – he leaves. He just sort of glances at me, looks away, and walks out.

Suddenly I don't want to be having this dream anymore. I don't want to be here with this fake image of my mother and an anxious Liz and my disappearing father. I want to stop this and wake up and--

--I'm on my stomach, facing my alarm clock. It's 3:14 a.m., and my apartment is quiet and dark. Instinctively, I reach over to touch Lorelai. I'll be able to get the ice water out of my veins and feel better as soon as I can see her sleeping, wrapped in my bed sheets instead of wearing all black. I'll tell her about this, and she'll slip her arms around me, and I'll realize that it was just some dream, but this is real.

I slide my hand across the sheet, but it passes over emptiness. She's not in bed. Reality is not turning out to be much more comforting than that dream.

"Lorelai," I ask, as I sit up and rub my eyes.

"Yeah," I hear from the chair by the bed. I switch on the lamp. She's sitting there, wearing my blue shirt, holding a pen and paper.

"It's 3:14," I say. "You couldn't sleep?"

"It's 3:15," she corrects. "And no." She rearranges herself so that she's sitting normally in the chair instead of curled up with her legs folded under her the way she was when I woke up. She leans towards me, but her eyes are looking sideways at nothing.

I want to ask her why not, but that seems stupid because I know why she can't sleep. She's thinking about that basement room at our new house. She's thinking about her little girl, and she's thinking about Rory living in a pool house in Hartford.

"What have you been doing all night?" I ask.

"Nothing. You know, just list making," she says, smiling. She holds up the list, as if I wouldn't believe her otherwise. But I would believe her, because making lists is one of the things she does when she's trying not to deal with something. "But you! Why are you awake? I hear it's 3:15."

I hope that the clock has changed so I can correct her, tell her it's 3:16. She'll laugh and I will have made her stop worrying for a second, but it hasn't. In big red numbers, 3:15 shines back at me.

"No reason." I don't know why I didn't tell her. She looks at me, raising her eyebrows. "Bathroom," I say, lying again.

"Ahh, yes. A few too many cups of herbal tea with your pile of vegetables this evening?" she asks.

"It's called a salad, and yeah, I guess so," I say, pulling myself out of bed.

Now I'm wondering how long I'll have to stand here, in the bathroom, before I can get back in bed. I'm trying to shake this feeling, but everything just seems dark and sad. I was happy today and last night – actually smiling. This morning, I'm standing in my bathroom, staring at my mirror, clutching each side of the porcelain sink, asking myself why I suddenly feel so rotten.

Well, let's see. For one, I just dreamt about my dead mother and my sister and Lorelai dressed in all black, and I saw my dad, who I haven't seen in so long. When I'm awake, it's easy not to think about him. Even on my "dark day" every year, I spend the time trying not to think about him. I'm pretty good at it, too.

I want to tell her about it; I really do. This is the woman I'm marrying, and if I can't tell her about some stupid dream, what hope is there for us? But I'm holding back, and I really think it's because I'm worried about her. If there's one thing Lorelai likes to do, it's sleep. She wasn't sleeping. I can't tell her this right now.

When enough time has passed, I flush the toilet and run the sink for a few seconds and leave. She's writing when I find her, still sitting in the chair.

"So," I say, walking to the chair, putting my hands on her tense shoulders. "What's on this list?"

"Nothing important. Just stuff." She doesn't look up, just keeps staring at her paper. I start rubbing her shoulders, trying to squeeze the tension out of them and out of this moment. I feel her relax a little bit.

"Can I help you with any of it?" I ask.

"It's just, you know, chores and stuff."

I sit down on the edge of the bed, facing her. I stare at her, unwilling to let her off the hook.

"Luke, c'mon, it's nothing," she implores. "Here, listen." She picks up the list and reads it. "Call realtor. Fix front steps. Paint downstairs bathroom."

"House stuff?" I ask her.

"Yes," she says, putting the list down.

"All house stuff?"

"Yes." She hesitates. "All house stuff."

"So mostly house stuff?" I ask.

"Yeah, mostly." She looks at my face for a second and then looks away again, back at the list. I remember the Lorelai-dressed-in-black from my dream because she gave me the same look, and I shudder. She must see that I'm upset, although she doesn't know why.

She picks the list up again. "Clean upstairs closet. Visit Sookie. Check light fixture in room 14. Luke, you don't want me to keep reading this."

"You're right," I say. I put my hand out. She studies my face for a moment, and hands me the list. I read it over. There it is, scrawled in blue, between "more Pop-tarts" and "fix lock to back door." Two simple words: "Tell Rory."

She knows what I've read, and we sit there silently for a moment. "You have a quite a day ahead of you." I pat the bed next to me, and she moves onto the mattress. She rests her head on my shoulder. After a moment, she speaks.

"I don't know how to do this, Luke."

"That's okay," I say.

"Part of me just wants to say, 'You know what, kid? I didn't make you leave; I didn't make you move into some stupid pool house. If this is what you want then –'"

"Lorelai," I interrupt, trying to stop her from finishing that thought.

"How could she do this? She doesn't want to be part of my life. That's what she said when she packed up and moved in there with them. Why do I have to be the one to go to her?" she asks.

I put my arm around her. "It would be a lot easier not to tell her."

"It would," she says.

"Until she finds out from someone else," I say. Lorelai knows this. She also knows she is going to tell Rory. I just wish there was some way to make this easier for her.

Lorelai takes a deep breath and collapses into me a little bit. "I'm tired," she says.

"It's 3:23," I say.

She actually smiles. "Aww, honey, did you miss that day in kindergarten? It's 3:24." And she's right, because as I spoke, the clock changed. Damn.

We maneuver back into a sleeping position – our heads on the pillow, my arm around her waist. But neither of us is sleeping. I'm afraid to shut my eyes because I'm afraid to sleep. She's afraid to shut hers because she's afraid to wake up.

So we lie here, not speaking or moving. At about 4:30 she takes my hand in hers, and just sort of holds it. We don't talk until almost six, when I ask her if she'd like some coffee. When I bring it back upstairs, she's getting dressed in the dark.

"Thanks," she says, taking the paper cup.

"Are you leaving?" I ask stupidly.

"I'm going to Hartford, I guess."

"You're just going to show up?" I don't mean this to sound so sharp, but if Rory is still upset, which I think she is, she might not appreciate waking up to an invading Lorelai.

She glances at me, and then looks away, back to the purple shirt she is buttoning. "Yeah. I guess that's the plan."

"It's early."

"I know. I won't miss her if it's early. She won't answer if I call."

"So you're just going to sneak in?"

"Well, I've had a lot of practice sneaking out," she snaps, but her expression instantly changes to one of regret.

"Let me come," I say. I don't know what I'd do, or how I'd help, but I could. Hell, I could tell Rory about that dream I just had. I could tell her about how my dad was fine, minding his own business, selling hardware and building a boat with his son, and then he just got sick and was gone, and I can't even let myself think about him. She shouldn't be wasting all this time not talking to her mother. Lorelai loves her more than anything in the world.

But I can't say that to Rory, for so many reasons. Lorelai just sighs, and shakes her head. "This is a me thing."

"It doesn't have to be."

"No, Luke. It is. This is a me and Rory thing." She shuts her eyes and sighs again. "But thank you."

She picks up her coffee and her bag. "I'll call you later?"

I shake my head, and with that she leaves the apartment. I sit on the edge of the bed and bury my face in my hands. This is going to be a long day.

Eventually, I manage to get ready for work and trudge downstairs. It's a little after six, but Cesar has everything under control. I pour coffee, deliver plates of eggs, make small talk with the regulars – I'm going through the motions. But this morning is hollow and empty. I can't stop thinking about Lorelai, driving to Hartford. I can't shrug off that feeling from my dream. I keep seeing my dad, standing right here by the front door, but then he's gone again.

I wonder what Lorelai will say to her. It should be easy to tell someone you love that you're getting married to someone else you love. But for Lorelai, it won't be.

And for me, it's not easy either. I realize this as I'm refilling a coffee mug at that table from my dream. I'm talking to Mrs. Nichols about something – the weather, I think – but I keep thinking of Liz and my mother sitting here, whispering. I realize that I haven't told Liz that I'm getting married. Why is that? How can I encourage Lorelai to be honest with Rory, someone who she's upset with, yet I haven't called my sister to tell her my good news?

"Let me know if you need anything," I say, probably interrupting Mrs. Nichols' weather speech. I walk away awkwardly, and slip into the back closet, pulling the phone with me.

This is going to work. Maybe that was the point of the dream. I need to share this with my family. Maybe it wasn't about my dad at all. Maybe I won't have to think about him -- to remember playing baseball in the backyard or fishing in the pond near our house -- if I can just call Liz. I dial.

"Hello?" I hear her say. I realize that it's only 6:45.

"Liz? Did I wake you up?" I ask.

"Luke? No," she lies. "Don't worry about it. TJ and I were just eating breakfast. What's up?"

"Well," I say, moving the phone cord from hand to hand, "I have some news."

"News?"

This isn't so hard. I can do this. "I'm getting married."

"You are?" she says, and I can hear anticipation in her voice. It makes me happy, and now I'm smiling. See. This is working.

"I am."

"To--?"

"Lorelai."

"Oh! Lorelai!" she shrieks. "TJ they're getting married!... No, it's Luke… Luke, my brother… Yes, to Lorelai… I know! Luke, I knew this would happen. A sister knows these things."

I'm actually laughing. She sounds so incredibly happy for me.

"When? How did it happen? Tell me everything?"

So I do. Except I tell her the fairytale version. I leave out the fact that Lorelai asked me first, that she was crushed about Rory right before it happened. I don't tell her that I didn't give her the ring until the next morning. I just tell her the part about kneeling on the diner floor, and I tell her it happened last night. Then I move right on to the Twickham house. Every few sentences, she interrupts me with an "ooh" or an "aww" or some other girl noise, and each time she does, I smile a little bit. This is nice.

"I'm happy for you, Luke. I really am," she says when I'm finished.

"Thanks, Liz." I'm still smiling. "Look, I better get back to work. I just wanted to make sure you knew."

"Well, call back soon. There have been some developments on the Renaissance Fair circuit that might interest you."

"Bye, Liz."

"Bye."

See. All better. When I leave the closet and walk back into the diner, I don't see Liz and my mother sitting at the table; I see Mrs. Nichols reading the paper. It worked. I go back to coffee and eggs and taking orders.

But somehow, now that I'm immersed in diner work, everything is hollow again. That feeling is back, and I know what I'm going to have to do today.

_Thanks for reading. Please review! TBC…_


	7. Seven

_Title: There's Luke_

_Chapter: Seven (Lorelai's point of view) _

Sneaking in is a lot like sneaking out. I said this to Luke earlier, but I'm thinking it again as I pull into my parents' neighborhood. I feel that same mixture of anxiety, adrenaline, and determination that I felt when I was 15 and climbing out my window.

I park my car on the street, a couple of houses away from my parents. They can't know that I'm here. I have no interest in talking to either of them today, or any time soon. It's too much.

Talking to Rory is also too much, but that's a too much I'm going to have to deal with. I'm going to be to the point and honest. I'm the mature one here; she's the kid. She's made that perfectly clear.

I check to make sure I have my keys – what would be worse than getting locked out in Hartford? – and I quietly shut the door to the jeep. Here we go.

Once I reach my parents' lawn, I slip off my high heels and carry them the rest of the way. The grass is still dewy at 7:30 in the morning, a fact I'd forgotten since I don't remember the last time I was here at 7:30 in the morning, and I know that my black heels on the wet lawn would not turn out well for the shoes or the grass. Plus, heel marks across the Gilmore lawn would surely be noticed by someone.

I walk briskly along the edge of the lawn, hoping that my mother is busy and my father is at work already. It occurs to me that Rory could be at his office – wasn't he going to let her pretend not to be wasting a year of her life and be a secretary? – but I'm going to bet she's still sleeping. He wouldn't want to offend her and make her get up too early.

I make it to the back of the house blessedly undetected, and now I'm standing in front of the pool house, facing the same window where I saw her last. The lights are off, and even though I am a mother going to talk to her daughter, I am completely aware of the fact that I am intruding. I take the house key that I hope will also open this door out of my purse, and slip it in the lock.

I'm in. I wipe my muddy feet on the doormat, and deposit my heels next to the front door. Okay. That was the easy part.

I tiptoe to the bedroom. The door is cracked open, and I slip inside silently. I was right; she's sleeping. I remove an overflowing cardboard box from the chair next to the bed, and take a seat.

I'm not really sure what that game plan is here, to be honest. I never really got past the sneaking-in undetected part when I was envisioning this. Luke was right to be worried about my showing up here. It's not that I don't know what to say; I don't know how I want her to react.

If she seems happy for me, I'll be hurt by the discordance of the whole moment. How can she be happy for me while she's busy being angry with me? How can it be that at what should be the happiest moment of my life, the moment when I know who I am going to marry, the other love of my life and I are barely speaking?

At the same time, if she's not happy or if she's upset or so angry to find me here at 7:35 that she won't speak to me, I'll be hurt, too. I wonder which would be worse, as I watch my perfect daughter sleeping. But she's not perfect, I remind myself. That's what I've learned this week, even though she's been trying to show me for a long time now. My perfect daughter is imperfect.

It's so strange to sit here, an intruder, just watching her sleep and dreading the conversation that will come when she wakes up. I feel so helpless, like I have no control over the situation. Who knows when she'll wake up? How long will I have to wait?

I used to be able to wake her up if I needed to. Even if it was just to talk, I could wake her up, but usually it was to get ready for school. Sometimes I would climb into bed with her, and wake her up gently with promises of pancakes and coffee at Luke's. Other times, when we were rushed and 12-year-old Rory wouldn't drag herself out of bed, I'd blare the radio or shake her shoulders until she was angry enough to get up. Occasionally, I even resorted to throwing pillows at her from the other side of her room.

I'd kind of like to throw something at her this morning. Maybe it would wake her up from her sleep and from her incredible immaturity.

But no, I'll just wait. I clench my fists, digging my fingernails into my palm, and shake my foot from side to side.

At 7:45 the steady beep of her alarm clock begins, increasing in volume until I can tell she's awake. She rolls over slowly, reaches out, and struggles to find the off button. Finally she does, and she pushes herself into a seated position as she rolls her head slowly from side to side.

Even though the expensive Gilmore curtains effectively block out most of the light, it's still bright enough for her to tell that I'm sitting here. "Mom?" she says. It's not angry, just surprised. "What are you doing here?"

"We need to talk," I say. Direct. To the point. Honest. Very good.

She pulls the covers off of herself. "I don't want to talk," she says, climbing out of bed, walking towards the bathroom.

"Right. But here's the thing. We need to talk."

She's about to walk into the bathroom, but she stops and turns towards me. "I'm not going back to Yale."

"You've made that clear."

"And if I were to change my mind, it wouldn't have anything to do with my mother showing up at 7:45 to lecture me." Despite the harshness of her statement, I am slightly relieved to here the "if I were to change my mind." But I have to focus. I'm not here for this.

"So," she continues, pretending not to be flustered by any of this, "I would appreciate it if you would leave my room."

"This isn't your room. This is a pool house. I have just as much right to be here as you do." Damn it. She's pulling me down to her level. She's the kid here.

"Should I call Grandma and ask who has more of a right to be here? Maybe she'll come over for some breakfast and the three of us can enjoy the pool house together." She walks towards the phone. I really can't believe this is Rory.

I clench my jaw. Focus, I tell myself, but it's hard because I just can't relate to her right now. How has she lost so much respect for me so quickly? When did she become her own person, and how do I fit into this? Because I know we'll get past this fight, but I want to get past it really, and not just to speaking terms.

"Rory, really, just pretend for two seconds that you don't hate me." She's taken aback by my directness, and she lets herself fall back onto her bed. I look right at her, take a deep breath, and begin.

"In five years, where do you see yourself? Where do you see us?" She's staring back at me, blankly. "Actually, how about 10 years? You might still be in college in five years. I don't know what your grand plan is so I don't want my hypothetical to infringe on that." Damn it. I did it again. I'm going to be mature from now on.

"What are you talking about?"

"In ten years, where do you see us? Do you think we'll be speaking?"

"I think we'll be speaking," she answers, and it seems like this is the first time she's registered that fact that this isn't an ordinary fight we've been having; it could have long-term implications. I continue.

"If you get a new job, or meet a great guy, or break up with a great guy, do you think you'll call me?" I started this line of questioning to make a point – that this fight could really hurt us, that it's terrible not to be able to talk about the big stuff. But somewhere in the last few seconds, I've really started to wonder how she'll answer.

"Of course I'll call you."

"But if it happened tomorrow, if you met Logan tomorrow and he said, 'You know what Rory. Better off as friends.' Do you think you'd call?"

She looks at me, and rearranges herself on the bed so that she's sitting Indian style. After a moment she answers. "I don't know." It stings, but at least she's being honest. At least she's talking to me.

I nod. "Okay then." We sit there quietly again as I try to figure out where I'm going with this. "Rory, it's no secret that I… haven't agreed with certain actions you've taken over the past year," I say.

She nods, because she does know. We both tried to pretend it wasn't affecting us, but it was. Because it was more than sleeping with Dean, rushing into bed with Logan, stealing a boat, and dropping out of Yale. It was imperfection, it was unmet expectations, it was anxiety, it was disappointment. Feelings I'd never felt before.

"And for 21 years, it's been my place to worry about that. From time to time, when you would do something crazy like, I don't know, spend the night at Ms. Patty's with Dean, I had to care. I had to get all worked up and upset because you weren't your own person, you were my kid."

"So this year, when you started… taking those actions that I didn't always agree with, I kept getting emotional about it because I didn't see you as your own person. You were my person… my kid…" I'm still staring at her, and she's gazing back, giving no hint of what she thinks.

"But what this Yale thing has shown me is that maybe you're trying to tell me something. Maybe this is your way of putting a little space between us, becoming your own person."

"This doesn't have anything to do with you," she says.

I nod again. "Okay. Well, you might not think it does. But I do. Whether or not this is what you meant to happen, you've sent me a message. You want our relationship to be different, and that's fine. I just wanted to know how different you want it to be."

"I don't want it to be different," she says.

"How can you say that? You moved out. You moved here," I say, gesturing towards the stack of empty cardboard boxes. "You want something new – more independence, more freedom… Maybe you're right. The last thing I want is to be my parents. I want you to have your space."

She looks really uncomfortable, or maybe just sad because she sees what she's done. I don't know.

"I'll give you more space and more time, but I'm not going to disappear, because if I do, I'm afraid that you won't call me in 10 years. I can deal with you not calling me in 10 minutes, or 10 days. Ten weeks is a lot, but 10 years. I can't deal with that. It's too much."

"Mom, I'm going to call you."

"All right, then. Good." Awkward silence.

"Is that why you came here? To ask me that?" she says, getting out of the bed again.

I nod. I keep nodding. I'm still nodding. "No," I stammer, finally, and stop nodding.

"Okay then," she says, sitting back down. "I have to get to Grandpa's office eventually so…"

"Rory, something happened to me the other night. Something big. And I'm going to tell you, not because I'm expecting a _Mary Poppins _reaction or anything, but because I think I owe it to you. If it were you, I'd want you to call me, and I wouldn't want to hear it from someone else."

She says nothing. She's staring at the ground next to the bed.

"Luke…and I… are getting… married." I wish I had said that more definitively, but each word was like stepping further into an icy lake and just waiting for the its-too-cold-to-keep-going signal to reach my brain. I could have dived in, but I didn't, because if it were too cold, then I would already be wet.

"Oh," she says, looking up from the rug. "You and Luke."

I nod, smiling softly. "Luke and I are getting married," this time I just say it in one breath, and it feels good. Turns out the water isn't that icy; in fact, it's really refreshing.

"Mom, that's-- Wow. You and Luke. It's really happening."

I nod again. "It is. It's really happening." I reveal my left hand, twisting the ring so the diamond is on top.

"It's just…unexpected," she says.

"What do you mean?" I was not expecting "unexpected" to be her adjective of choice. What is unexpected about this? I thought everyone on earth, including my mother, saw this coming.

"The other day, at the hospital," she explains. "You were going on about being young and independent for the first time, not wanting kids. What happened to that?"

I had let myself forget about that conversation, and I am surprised that Rory has chosen to bring it up. "Things changed. My daughter dropped out of Yale and moved to Hartford."

"You're getting married because I dropped out of Yale?"

"No. I'm getting married because when you dropped out, it made me realize some stuff."

"Like what?" she asks.

"Like, how important it is to have something constant in your life. Like, how much Luke cares about me, and how much I need him." I said that last part without really thinking about it, and I'm startled by how true it is. I need him so much. I sit quietly for a moment, just thinking how lucky I am that when this stressful conversation is over, I'll be able to drive to Stars Hollow and find him and things will be okay again.

"Rory, if you get to change and move on, then I should too. And if I'm going to move on, then I need to think big picture. I need to think 10 years from now. And 10 years from now, I don't want to be single and independent. I want to have a family. I want to be with Luke."

"Well, congratulations," she says, but her heart isn't in it. She was there for the last nine years, but ultimately she missed the big moment. It has to hurt a little.

"Rory, there's something else." I pause, figuring out how to break the news. "I'm, uh—I'm moving."

"You're moving?"

"Luke bought the Twickham house."

"You're leaving our house?" I think tears are starting to well up in her eyes, but I have to be direct. To the point, I remind myself.

"Yeah. I am."

"So when you came here to find out how our new relationship was going to work, you'd already pretty much factored me out?"

"No, Rory. Not at all. In fact, if you ever decide to move back to Stars Hollow, you'll have the entire basement to yourself. Luke thought of that. _Luke_ was very concerned that you, Rory, have somewhere to stay in his house. No one factored you out." I respond.

"You can't leave our house."

"I'm not. I'm leaving _my_ house. You already left, remember? _This _is your house."

She stands up and walks over to the closet. "I have to get ready for work," she says.

"Rory," I say, standing up and walking to the closet. "When you left, you gave me permission to make decisions that aren't based on you. I haven't made a decision that you weren't part of since the day you were born. You can make your choices, and I can make mine, and I'm just… desperately hoping that we can work it out so we can be friends again. This is good, Rory. I don't know if you can see that right now, but maybe in a few days. This is _so _good."

"I know it's good," she says, ripping a black pinstriped skirt from the closet, letting the white plastic hanger fall violently to the ground. "It's good for you, it's good for Luke. It's perfect, really, for both of you."

"Then why are you so upset?"

"I don't know!" And when she says that, I just want to cry and throw my arms around her, because she's being honest again. It's interesting that the two completely honest things she's said during this conversation have both been "I don't know." She's a kid, of course she doesn't know. She's scared. I can see that now, but she's too proud to admit it.

She looks from the crumpled skirt she's holding to me. Tears are rolling down both of her cheeks. "I am happy for you, Mom. I am. I swear," she stammers through sobs. "You and Luke deserve this."

"Rory," I breathe, as she collapses into my arms.

"I messed everything up. I know that."

"That's okay sometimes," I say, holding my imperfect little girl, not wanting to let go because I don't know what will happen if I do.

"But I can't go back to Yale." Her words hit me like a wall of bricks, because for a second I thought she was going to apologize, repack her boxes, and sign up for classes.

I don't even know how to respond, but I still don't want to let go, so I just stand there with her, and I start to cry, too. Finally, I pull myself away, and I sit on the edge of the bed.

"So, I'll ask again, what's the plan?"

"I don't know," she says.

"How long are you going to stay here?" I ask.

"It's not like I could come home."

"Not unless you're signed up for fall term," I respond. She was expecting this answer.

"Then I don't know."

I nod. I sit there quietly while Rory takes the rest of her outfit out of the closet.

"I need to take a shower," she says.

"Okay. I should go, anyway. Sookie's home with Martha, so I need to be at the inn." We start walking to the front door.

"How is Martha?" Rory asks, as we walk.

"She's beautiful. She's perfect," I say, even though she's not perfect, because if Rory's not, then no one is. The awkward silence creeps back in.

As we stand by the front door, both of our faces are red and puffy, and I notice that we both wipe our cheeks with our hand in the same way. "You'll call if you need anything?" I ask.

"I'll call." I don't know if she will, but I hope she does. I want more than speaking terms, but I'll take that for the next 10 days or 10 weeks or 10 months.

"Bye," I say awkwardly. Is this really how it ends? With "bye." Can I not even muster a "have a nice day" or tell her that I love her? So much for honest and to the point. So much for being the bigger person. I open the door and walk out. I make it just a few feet and then I hear the door open again. I'm so relieved that she didn't let me leave.

"Your shoes?" she calls out, holding my black heels. Stupidly, I hadn't noticed that I was still barefoot.

"Wow, yeah, that would help," I say, walking back and taking them from her. I would put them back on, but I'm sure the grass is still wet. "So I'll see you." I turn to walk away, slightly crushed.

"Mom," she says. I turn around, and I'm struck by the look on her face: Her expression is strong, resolute, and stubborn, but her eyes are those of a little kid who is lost at the supermarket. "You know I still love you, right?"

I do know that, because I know all about loving people and being angry with them at the same time. Still, it feels so good to know that _she_ knows she still loves me, if that makes sense.

"Yeah, I do. You know I still love you? Always and no matter what?"

She nods. I half-smile. "Bye, Rory."

"Bye, Mom."

I make my barefoot way across the Gilmore lawn, slip my heels back on, walk down the street, and successfully start the car. Now I'm heading home, and I can't quite decide how I feel about the conversation. It could have been much worse, and at least she spoke to me. But still, she was guarded, and I was invading, and she was only sort of happy for me. I remember when I thought I was going to marry Max, and we jumped around my parents' dining room in excitement. She was so, so excited.

This time, when I know I'm going to marry Luke, we cried in my parents' pool house.

It always scares me a little bit when I'm driving, lost in thought, and suddenly realize I'm almost home. Was I not paying attention when I pulled out onto the interstate, drove for almost half an hour, got off at the exit, and navigated my way to Stars Hollow? I'd like to think I would have noticed if, say, a small child on a bicycle veered into the road, but who knows? I just find it strange that somehow, I'm back in Stars Hollow, almost at the inn. I remember that I'd told Luke I would call him later, and I want to hear his voice anyway. I dial the diner.

"Hello," says a flustered Cesar, after almost 10 rings.

"Hey, Cesar, it's Lorelai. Can I talk to Luke?" I'm pulling into my parking spot at the inn. It's only 8:40, and Michel's car is here, so I can steal a few minutes to talk.

"Luke's not here. He left about 15 minutes ago."

"He left? Where did he go?" I hear something fall and shatter in the background, followed by a scream.

"Dunno. I gotta go, Lorelai. Sorry. If you find him, tell him everything's good here."

"Bye." I hang up, and dial Luke's cell phone. It rings only once.

"Hey," he says. I can tell he's been waiting for my call.

"Hey. I called the diner."

"Yeah. I'm not there."

"I got that much. Where are you?"

"I'm at the fishing hole. How'd it go with Rory?" he asks.

"It was hard, but… it went. Why are you at the fishing hole?"

"I needed to sort some stuff out. What did she say though? Was she upset? Is she going back to Yale?"

"What kind of stuff do you need to sort out?"

"Just stuff."

"Is everything okay?" I ask.

"Yeah. Fine." He pauses. "Are you at work?"

"No," I say, and I'm not lying because I've just backed out of my parking spot and left the Dragonfly.

"Maybe we should talk in person," he says.

"I think so."

"Everything's fine. Don't worry." He pauses. "I just, I think it would help me…to, you know, see you."

"I know exactly how you feel," I say, and I make my way to see Luke.

_Thanks for reading. You guys have been so great with the reviews. It makes me very, very happy. TBC… I think the next chapter will be it, but who knows what will happen when I actually start writing? Thanks again!_


	8. Eight

_Title: There's Luke_

_Chapter: Eight (Luke's Point of View)_

I talk about my dad a lot, so most people don't realize how hard it is for my to think about him. I like to tell stories about him, to tell other people how great he was. What I hate, what I try as hard as I can never to do, is to _think_ about him. I hate to sit quietly and remember.

That's why that dream bugged me so much. It forced me to think, really think, about my dad. And it didn't make me think about him in a good, let's-tell-other-people kind of way. It made me think of him in an empty, he's-not-here kind of way. It's been so long, but it's still hard to think about the fact that he's not here.

And he won't be. Not when Lorelai and I get married, not when we have kids, not when I build that swing-set in the backyard.

I'm actually _thinking _about this as I sit here on this rotting wooden bench near the edge of the lake, or the fishing hole, as my dad always used to call it. Because that's all it was to him: a place to take his kid to catch some fish.

We were here every weekend in the summer. We'd fish on the shore or in the rowboat until it got too hot, and then we'd jump in the water. It's always been kind of greenish, but when I was nine and it was really hot out, I only cared about the fact that it was cool. Now, I'm kind of shocked I ever went in.

Now, it just seems cold and murky and unpleasant. Who knows what's in there? It's a cesspool.

It's the middle of the morning, but I'm sitting on the edge of this green pond, leaning forward, my elbows on my knees, just staring at the water. I hate missing work, so the fact that I'm letting myself be here tells me that this is pretty important. Whatever _this_ is.

No one else is here; no little kids are swimming with their dads right now, no one is fishing from the banks. But Lorelai's coming, and that's a relief. At least someone is coming.

It hasn't been very long since we talked on the phone when I hear footsteps behind me. I turn, and find Lorelai walking towards the bench. I struggle to find a word that describes her expression. I'm debating between "concerned" and "upset" when I realize it's neither; she's focused. No sooner have I realized this and stood up than she's wrapped her arms around my neck.

"Hey," she says.

I say nothing; I just stand there with her for a moment. Her morning with Rory was probably awful, but from the way she's holding on to me, with her face pressing into my chest, I can tell that she'd rather just stand here in silence, so I don't ask about it.

"Are you okay?" she asks, finally breaking the silence, and pulling her face far enough away from me so that she can see my face. I love her for asking. After her morning, after Rory – and she's worried about me?

"Me?" I ask stupidly. "Yeah. I'm fine," I say, backing away from her. I look out towards the water. "You? How are you?"

"I'll be fine. Things are going to be fine. It might take ten years, but they'll be fine."

"Ten years?" I ask, suddenly very concerned.

"Well, maybe less. We'll see. They'll be fine." She sounds so calm about the whole thing, and I believe her when she says everything will be okay. "But you?" When I don't say anything, she takes my hand. "Want to sit?" she asks, tilting her head towards the bench.

I nod, and she sits next to me, and puts her hand on my knee.

"Luke, what's up?" she asks. She doesn't say it like she's upset that I haven't told her; she just sounds worried, and focused. I don't want her to worry any more than she has to today, so I know I better speak up soon.

"It's nothing," I say, but I don't know why because obviously it's not nothing. I'm still staring at the water, like I'm fascinated by it, and maybe I am.

"You didn't sleep last night," she says. I didn't think she'd noticed, and my surprise causes me to look away from the water, and to her. She just looks so focused, so intent on solving this.

"I, uh… I had a dream," I say, before I can stop myself. It sounds so insignificant when I say it like that.

"What kind of dream?" she asks.

I take a deep breath. "I dreamed about my dad," I say, averting my eyes again. I wait for her to say something – something like "It's just a dream; it doesn't mean anything" – but she doesn't, so we just sit here silently.

"It's stupid, I know. I just… it seemed so real," I say, leaning forward on the bench. "My mom was there, in the diner, and Liz was there. And you were there. And then my dad showed up, and then he was gone. He just left."

She shifts her hand to my shoulder, and squeezes a little bit.

"You know, at first I thought I was so upset about seeing him, just about him being there. I don't dream about him, Lorelai. Ever." I hesitate for a second, because I'm afraid to tell her the real reason why the dream bothered me so much. At least, I think it's the real reason. It's what I realized while I was sitting here, staring at the murky water. But I decide to tell her, because she's here, and she wants me to tell her, and I should.

"But that wasn't the real reason?" she says, when she senses that I've paused.

"That was part of it. It's hard for me to think about the fact that he's gone, you know? So at first I thought I was upset because the dream made me realize how much I don't think about him. But then I realized that wasn't all. I think that the reason I was so upset was because he left."

"What do you mean?"

"Let's face it, my life is not full of people who stick around. My mom and my dad died. My sister ran away the second she had bus fare out of here. Rachel… you know. Jess left. They all left. And in my dream, my dad left all over again. He was there, probably trying to tell me something really important, and then he was gone."

"Luke," she says softly, after a moment of silence. I look her in the eyes, and she just stares back at me, focused, because she's smart and she's realized what's bothering me. "You do know that _I'm _not going to leave? In fact, you're going to get really sick of me. There's going to be a day when your going to walk down the stairs, and find me in my Daffy Duck pajamas, without makeup, eating three-day-old donuts at the kitchen table, and you're going to think, 'I am really sick of her being here all the time. She needs to get out for a while.' That's how much I am not going to leave. You'll get sick of me. Just you wait." She smiles.

"I doubt that."

"Well, don't doubt it. Maybe doubt the Daffy Duck pajamas part because I think I lost those, but not the rest of it." She raises her left hand, and points to the silver band I bought for her. "This means everything," she says. "I am so serious about this." She pauses for a moment, and then takes a breath. "I didn't tell you about my conversation with Rory this morning."

"No."

"Well, it was hard, you know, to see her being like that. She was immature, and rude… but she was still Rory. And I don't know how this is going to work out, but during the whole conversation I kept thinking, 'When it's over, there will be Luke to go back to. He'll sit with me and let me be upset about the whole thing.' I just kept thinking how much I need you." She replaces her hand on my shoulder. "It goes both ways, Luke."

I close my eyes, and take a slow, deep breath. I'm not good at talking about this kind of stuff, but I know she's right. "I know," I finally say, and I feel a little bit of the weight that's been crushing me all day slipping away. A little bit of that hollow feeling that haunted me at the diner this morning starts to disappear.

She leans forward and kisses me. Then we both sit back again the bench, and I put my arm around her. Finally I start to talk, because I've thought of something I should tell her. This is different from the stories I've told people before, because this one is not funny, and it doesn't have a happy ending.

"When my dad was sick, once they knew what was going to happen, he stopped talking a lot," I begin, leaning back on the bench, resting my hands on my legs. "I was taking care of him, but it was like he didn't really want me to see him. He wanted me to remember him the way he used to be – you know, playing baseball, selling hardware, building stuff for the house. Not like that."

"It must have been hard for you, since you guys were so close," she says. I love that she didn't say "I know how hard that must have been," because she realizes that she doesn't know. Sometimes I wonder who was luckier – Lorelai, who has two healthy parents who she struggles to tolerate, or me, who has two dead parents who were great.

"Yeah," I manage to reply. "It was hard. A couple days before he died, though, he said he wanted to talk to me. My dad was not a philosophical guy by any means, but I guess he'd had a lot of time to think, and he made me sit down, and he asked me some questions. And one of them was, 'What are your happiest memories from when you were a kid?' I thought about it, and I gave him a list: playing catch in the backyard, helping him at the store, watching him build stuff, going fishing.

"So he's lying there in this bed, looking weak and completely unlike my dad, and he says, 'Do any of those memories involve a cemetery?' And I'm confused, so I just tell him 'no.' He looks back at me and says, 'Good. So don't go there when I'm gone. Cemeteries are where you go to bury dead people, not to sit around and be sorry that they're gone.'

"I remember being so surprised that I couldn't say anything. He was just talking about how he was going to die, how I wasn't allowed to go to the cemetery, like it was nothing. He said, 'So go there when people die, but if you just want to remember the good old days, go play catch with your kid in the backyard, or go to the store, or build something, or go fishing.'" I take a deep breath. "So, that's what I do."

"Wow," Lorelai says, after an appropriate moment of silence has passed. "I would have liked to have met your dad."

"He would have liked you," I say. "A lot, actually."

"You think?" she asks.

"Yeah. For one thing, you say what's on your mind. He always respected that. For another, you don't take 'no' for an answer. That was also a big plus for him."

"Well, I'm glad that by astounding lack of verbal restraint and my stubbornness would have appealed to someone."

"It appeals to me. It runs in the family." She's smiling, and I'm smiling, and for a moment I've almost forgotten why we're here in the first place. But I remember when I look out at the water, which is completely still because there is no one fishing today. "I wish he could have met you. I wish he could be here for all of this."

"Me too," she says, falling against me, resting her head on my shoulder. Even now - months after our first kiss, months after the first time I woke up with her – it still makes me feel good to have her beside me. There is always going to be the occasional morning like this one, and it's nice to be reminded that no matter what, there's Lorelai.

I have a feeling, though, that most of our mornings aren't going to be like this one. Most of them are going to be happy, because we'll be together, and apparently that's pretty damn important to me. As I'm thinking this, a truck has pulls up to the fishing hole. It's a father and his son, and they're working to unload a rowboat from the bed of the truck. They finally get it out of the truck, they get their supplies, slide it into the water, and now the lake is not still.

Suddenly the lake doesn't look so green and dead. I can see why I used to swim in it. Things are a lot better this way.

Eventually, after an angry phone call from Michel in which I believe more than a few French curse words were used, Lorelai leaves to go to work, and she drops me off at the diner on her way. As I refill coffee cups and serve burgers for the rest of the day, I don't feel empty or sad at all. I'm just really happy that it's Lorelai who I'm going to see at the end of the day.

She comes in around ten, just after closing. That's one of the things she loves about being the girlfriend – or the fiancée, I guess. She loves that she can walk in after closing, order anything she wants, and I can't complain. I mean, I could complain, but it would definitely work against my best interests.

She sits down at the counter, looking tired, but oddly content. She picks up a menu, another one of her favorite ways to torture me, and begins to scrutinize it as if she doesn't already know what she's going to order. "Excuse me sir," she says. "I'm looking for a dessert. What would you recommend?"

I'm counting the money in the register when she says this, and I just glance at her and roll my eyes. When I look back, she's trying to stop herself from grinning, which would end her game, but I can see it peeking through at the corners of her mouth.

"I mean, the brownies sound good, but some places use too many eggs in the brownie batter, and there is really an important distinction between a fudgey brownie and a piece of fudge, so I was just curious about your recipe."

I look at her for a second, but still say nothing, and I continue counting money.

"On the other hand, this chocolate cake looks awfully appealing. I'm always a fan of a good piece of chocolate cake. Oh! There's cheesecake! Decisions, decisions…" She taps her fingernails on the counter. "Really, the issue with the chocolate cake is the same as the brownie issue--"

Before she can finish explaining the chocolate cake issue, I snatch the menu from her hands. "Cheesecake. You're having the cheesecake."

"And why is that?" she asks.

"Because. The brownies are fine, which you know because you've had them a thousand times before, but I don't want to listen to you trying to guess how many eggs I used in the batter. The chocolate cake – also fine, but I served the last piece around 9:30. The cheesecake is right here," I point to the glass-covered plate at the other end of the counter, "so that's what you're having."

She smiles. "Okay then. Cheesecake me, Dinerman."

I cut her a piece, and slide it down the counter. She takes a bite, closes her eyes, and sighs.

"You know, I made a great decision with this. Cheesecake is a great food." She takes another bite. "When I think cheese, I think "good." Cake, also good. Whoever thought to put them together," she says, as she sticks a forkful into her mouth, "was really an innovator." She finishes chewing. "Do you want some?"

"I don't eat cheesecake," I say.

"Oh, right. I mean, the vegetable to sugar ratio isn't quite high enough for you." She takes another bite. "We're going to have to work on that," she says.

"Work on what?"

"Lowering your minimum vegetable to anything-that-tastes-good ratio. I mean, I don't want our kids to be eating rabbit food during their formative years. Donuts, pop-tarts, Cheetos, Frosted Cheerios, cheesecake – this is the stuff of a well balanced diet, my friend."

"We'll see about that," I say.

"The food thing we'll definitely have to work on, but I meant to tell you today that I do give you permission to take them fishing," she says. "Although I can't promise I'll go with you. I think we all know how I feel about fishing."

I smile. "It's good we're sorting all this out now," I say.

"But you can't let them actually _catch _any fish…"

She's still talking, in between mouthfuls of cheesecake. What she's saying is ridiculous – Pop-Tarts are not a part of a well balanced diet, and catching the fish is kind of the point – but I'm so happy to hear her talking about "our kids" that I let it go. I just let her talk, and I stand across the counter from her, pretending to be bothered by everything she's saying. But we both know I'm not. I'm not bothered by it all, because it's just Lorelai, and she's here.

_So I think that's it. Thanks SO much for all the great reviews, and for reading this whole thing. I had fun writing it, and I hope you had fun reading!_


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